


we can't tell the emperors apart

by stepquietly



Category: Advantageous (2015)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6811156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepquietly/pseuds/stepquietly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wonders sometimes if she lost Jules because of what the transfer left out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we can't tell the emperors apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thingswithwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/gifts).



“I don’t think I should call you mom anymore,” Jules announces dispassionately, carefully dropping her apple and pear slices into a sealable plastic bag.

Gwen struggles to focus from the quite blank space she’d sunk into, taking a longer breath to force herself back. The familiar feeling of pressure on the sides of her skull floods back, like a scream constantly reverberating somewhere between the skin and the bone, trapped by the weight of her hair in its loose bun.

“Why?” she asks, tilting her head to regard Jules. The shift changes the shape of the pressure to something more bearable.

Jules shrugs, eyes focused on the task of packing her lunch away. She bends to place in her backpack. “You’re not her. You’re – different.” When she stands back up so Gwen can see her, her face is already set with resolve. “You’re Gwen.”

The pressure is harder for a second before it releases again, and Gwen puts her cup down and uncurls her fingers from its warm surface before her fingers can spasm. She flexes her fingers absently, wondering if this is the sort of thing she should be reporting to the Center or if it’s simply another part of the process they’ve taken for granted.

“Hey,” Jules calls, and she struggles back up from the quiet torpor she’d accidentally slipped into, her fingers still clenching and releasing rhythmically.

“Hmmn?” she murmurs, trying to remember why this conversation matters. She’s going to have to take her medicine soon.

Jules’ mouth tightens. “I’m calling you Gwen from now on,” she says, an emotion vibrating under her even tone that Gwen can’t bring herself to parse right now.

“All right,” she responds. There’s nothing else to say.

* * *

 

“How are you and Jules doing?” Dave asks. His face is creased more, avoiding eye contact by checking the readouts on the machines recording her vitals. A part of her idly wonders if he will be forced to undergo the procedure eventually. The age is later for men but the Center will want their employees to be its own advertisement; the endless reassurance of perfect features in every cubicle and around every corner.

“We’re fine,” she murmurs, watching the readouts with him. “She’s calling me Gwen now.”

The creases on his face shift into concern and he instinctively puts out a comforting hand before clenching it into a fist, turning his face away to stare at the camera that’s recording their interaction.

“And that’s fine?” There’s an undertone here, just like there was in Jules’ voice this morning, but Gwen can actually understand this one. There was enough of Gwen to remember what it feels like to trust Dave.

She puts a hand on his and waits for him to turn and clasp her palm, his hands trembling.

“It’s fine,” she comforts him.

* * *

 

She wonders sometimes if she lost Jules because of what the transfer left out – the excised memories rather than the ones that jumped so eagerly into this new brain, whether that part of Gwen stayed in her body and died with her, reliving that one complete moment over and over: herself, standing with Dave somewhere on a pier, looking out at the water and hearing that her daughter would have a chance.

She doesn’t think so, but it’s a nice thought anyway – to end with hope.

* * *

 

“ _Gwen_ ,” Jules says the first time, her voice shaking. “Are you coming?”


End file.
